The Red Rose
by L. E. Grey
Summary: With a seemingly perfect marriage & 3 children to show for it, Christine & Raoul couldn't be happier. However, as their eldest daughter grows up, a consequence of a decision Christine made 4 months after fleeing the Opera comes to light...
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: **This story is a mishmash of PotO stories (Leroux, ALW - stage not the movie, Kay) and it's a story that has seen many plots and characters in the 15 or so years it has been living in my head - well before _Love Never Dies_. The physical depictions of characters mostly come from the ALW version. I do not own any of the characters save those that have come from my own imagination.

_"'Night after night the nightingale came to beg for divine love, but though the rose trembled at the sound of his voice, her petals remained closed to him ...' _  
_Flower and bird, two species never meant to mate. Yet at length the rose overcame her fear and from that single, forbidden union was born the red rose that Allah never intended the world to know."_

~ Susan Kay's Phantom

_**Christine - 1882**_

He was dying. That is what the Persian - Nadir - had told me. He wanted to see me one last time before his death and Nadir was to escort me to him. It had been four months since I had fled the Opera with Raoul and our wedding was but two weeks away. Raoul was away - one last journey with the Navy before his enlistment was over - he was due to return to France four days before the wedding. I wished I knew how to be in two places at once! I felt compelled to return to the cellars of the Opera and grant a dying man his final wish. Despite all that had transpired between Erik and myself, I was still grateful for all he had taught me. He bestowed upon me a great gift - and for that I was thankful. I debated with myself for hours. I knew that if I went, Raoul would disapprove - that is putting it lightly. He would lose trust in me, he would feel betrayed. I could understand that. He worked so hard to save me, putting his own life on the line. However, I knew that I could not forgive myself if I ignored Erik's request. Nadir assured me that he would accompany me and stay at Erik's home in the cellars as long as I was there.

In the end, I lied. I told the de Chagny's that I was going to Paris to visit with Meg and her mother. I would be gone for the better part of a week, spending a day our two with the Giry's. And so I went. If I had any idea that my one, final visit to Erik would turn out the way it did, I doubt I would have gone.

When I first saw him, lying on the sofa of his drawing room, his face unmasked, his beautiful voice strained with the effort of speaking my name, something within me changed. I know that was when I ceased to be the wide-eyed, naive Christine Daae. To be frank, I finally matured that day. In one night I went from girl-child to a woman in every sense. I had always loved Erik but I had felt it was something platonic - how a student loves a teacher. That night I realized it went much deeper than that. The thought of Erik dying devastated me; my heart broke. At the sight of him, I crumbled. He had always exuded such strength, such power, that seeing him so weak and helpless was a shock to the system. The sight nearly paralyzed me - I found myself wishing to wake from the nightmare. Tears flowed from my eyes as if a spout had been opened. Erik turned his handsome and ravaged face toward me, and slowly extended a hand toward me, his long, elegant fingers trembling as they beckoned me to his side.

"Please, child, no tears are necessary for me."

I ran to his side, collapsing to my knees, freely grasping his hand with both of mine. I begged him to tell me that Nadir was wrong about him - surely he was not dying! The thought seemed impossible to my mind. Despite the loss of both my parents, and being fully aware that people are not on this Earth forever, I somehow believed Erik was immortal.

I remember him sighing - a sound so very sorrowful! - and he was silent for a long while as a I wept by his side. "Christine," he paused, swallowing hard. "I know that I am very ill. I..." again he paused, his magnificent voice was so strained! "I do not believe I can recover from it." His gaze turned from me then. I shook my head, trying to reassure him that this would pass.

I spent hours tending to him, doing everything I knew to fend off illness, to make him more comfortable. He at least seemed stable - his condition never worsened nor did it improve. It was very late - perhaps even dawn - before Nadir could convince me to retire and rest. I lay in bed but I could not sleep. I realized that when I left Erik's home the next day that it would very well be that last time I would see him. There was a definite sense of finality. This man - whom I felt indebted to - was enduring his final days. A man who could have and _should_ have had a life where his voice and his genius were shared with the world. Erik could have had fame, he could have lived above like anyone else. He would have been loved - truly loved. If his mother had been kinder, a more loving woman ... As that thought crossed my mind, I sat up in bed, my mind a whirl. _I_ loved him. Erik would die without knowing the love of a woman - of anyone. If I had the courage, I could change that. I had surprised myself. I was a woman who was weeks away from marrying another man whom I also loved, but my thoughts were firmly with a man who lay dying a room away from where I sat. I knew that it was a grave sin, the plan that was quickly forming in my head. Given the circumstances, surely God would forgive my actions - if they happened. Raoul, the man who would become my husband, would not have to know. It would be a secret that would die with Erik and, eventually, with me.

Or so I had thought. God - whom I had hoped would turn a blind eye to my actions - had other plans. He made sure that I would never be able to forget my act of compassion and love.


	2. Chapter 2

_**Christine**_

Two weeks later, Raoul and I wed as planned. It was a wonderful day. The ceremony and celebration helped pull me out of the melancholy I felt since I had left Paris. The morning after our wedding is when we received the edition of _L'Epoque_ that I had been dreading. Three little words: _"Erik is dead."_ Nadir had told me what to look for so that I would know when Erik had passed. While I bathed that morning, I wept. It was so odd to feel such happiness and such sorrow at the same time. It was truly overwhelming. I did find some solace in the fact that I knew that Erik had died a content man. He knew that there was one person in the world that loved him. I felt no guilt as I thought about it. Even with my new husband seated across the breakfast table.

* * * * *

Our honeymoon lasted nearly two months. We traveled all over Europe, visiting many distant relatives of the de Chagny's and returning to my native Sweden. The journey helped me cope with my sorrow and when we returned I was not consumed by it. I no longer had moments where I had to bury it under a facade of happiness. I was truly happy and with good reason. Shortly after returning to our estate outside of Paris, a doctor confirmed what Raoul and I had suspected: I was with child.

* * * * *

The labor and birth were long and difficult. The pain of child birth caught me off guard - I had never had a tolerance for physical pain. It was agony. I had labored for well over a day - I'm not certain how long it was exactly. When the baby was finally born, it did not cry. I was terrified of a stillbirth. I forced myself to sit up so that I could see my child, despite the protests of my midwife. The infant was a healthy pink and the arms and legs were moving, but not a sound was made. The midwife rapped the baby's backside three times before the first cries were made, and even then they weren't the piercing cries that were so typical of a newborn. The midwife cleaned and wrapped the child before introducing me to the life I worked so hard to bring into the world.

"Congratulations, Madame la Vicomtess. You have a healthy little girl."

* * * * *

We named her Eloise, after an aunt that Raoul favored as a child. Ellie - as we called her - was an extraordinarily bright girl. She talked and walked early. She was always curious about everything; one of the first phrases she uttered with regularity was "What is that?" Raoul was the doting father I had expected him to be, often taking Ellie for horseback rides around the estate grounds. Less than two years later, our second daughter, Michele, was born - and Raoul could not have been happier to have two little girls to dote on, despite the pressure from his family to produce a son to carry the de Chagny name. However, I found it difficult to share his happiness. It was after Michele's birth that I began to have my suspicions about Ellie.

The signs had always been there, I simply did not notice them. It began one day while I was watching my daughters play. Michele was lying on the floor with a rattle while Ellie lie on her stomach next to her with a few sheets of paper and a pencil, her feet waved back and forth as she concentrated on her drawing. I do not know when or why I began comparing my girls, but I did. Perhaps I was silently lamenting how quickly Ellie had grown; it seemed only days ago that she was Michele's age. I remembered how Ellie wore larger clothes when she was Michele's age. We had even consulted a doctor about Michele's small size only to be informed that she was very close to normal for her age considering that I was so petite; Ellie was simply tall for her age. Michele's blond hair seemed to have Raoul's waves; perhaps she would eventually have my curls. Ellie's hair had always been a dark brunette that was nearly black and straight as a ruler. Michele's eyes were a cool, light blue much like Raoul's. _ She seems to greatly favor her father_, I remember thinking. I think turned my attention to Ellie, trying to spot features of Raoul in her. She had my eyes - a deep blue that was nearly indigo, save for the odd, gold flecks...

My breath caught in my throat and my heart felt as if it stopped. _No, no, no... that's impossible._ I stared at my daughter as she drew on her paper, occasionally stopping to retrieve Michele's rattle when she dropped it. I scrutinized every feature, everything she did, looking for Raoul there... looking for _myself_ there. It was then that I noticed the pencil was in her left hand.

Our governess had noticed my distress. "Madame, are you all right? You look so pale..."

Ellie's head snapped up, concern in her eyes, "_Maman_?"

I could not look at her, my own daughter. I shook my head, mumbled something about a sudden headache and fled the room, unable to look at the truth before my eyes.


	3. Chapter 3

**Note: **After a very long hiatus, I have returned. Writer's block and frustration have been plaguing me something awful for any and all stories I have been writing here and elsewhere. The beginning chapters for this story have always given me trouble. I have the plot in mind, I know where it will be going (in fact, some of those chapters are written!), it's just this bloody set-up. Hang in there, faithful readers and newcomers. I am determined to finish this.

_**Christine-1891**_

It was nearly five years later when Raoul began to have his suspicions - or, at least, until he confronted me about them.

By this time a son - Jean-Marc - joined us and the quiet scorn I had received from Raoul's family (his sisters especially) evaporated. The de Chagny family name finally had an heir. Raoul's Little Dancer finally earned her title.

The differences in my children were striking. Jean-Marc was a typical rough and tumble boy: a nightmare at times for his governess and Raoul's sisters. _"This was the future Comte de Chagny?"_ they would often wonder aloud within my hearing. He was rarely without scrapes or his mess of curls unruly.

Michele was a girl who loved ribbons and lace and pink. Her aunts loved doting on her and she seemed to enjoy all of the decorum that went along with growing up in an aristocratic family. She loved having tea with her aunts and was usually one step behind Jean-Marc, admonishing him for running or dirtying himself.

Then, there was Eloise. She was usually quiet and reserved and enjoyed spending her time reading or drawing. She would often observe Raoul play chess against his brother, Philippe, when he would visit us. During one visit, Philippe took it upon himself to teach Ellie the game. By the time she retired to bed that evening, Philippe could not defeat her. She was six years old.

Ellie was eight years of age when Raoul confronted me. The catalyst had been her interest in the piano. I had tried for years to draw her attention away from the instrument. I hid all the sheet music. I would constantly distract her from it with books and drawing tools and making her play with her siblings. For two years I managed to stay one step ahead of her. However, her cunning eventually caught up with me. Like her father, when Ellie had her mind set on something, she was determined to get what she wanted. I had set the sheet music that had been on the piano on the highest shelf in the library, thinking that it would be out of sight, out of mind. I really should have known better.

I had been roaming the gardens, enjoying the peaceful summer afternoon, watching Jean-Marc as he ran ahead of me, darting between the carefully manicured hedges. "Be careful, dear boy, or you will tear your clothing!" I called after him with a smile. I wandered after my son, quietly humming to myself. I gasped when I realized that I was humming along with a piano, it's delicate notes floating into the garden from the open windows of the house. The only ones that lived on the estate that knew how to play were myself and the governess and neither of us could play _Fur Elise_ quite so well... _Oh, no..._

I dashed to the house, hearing Jean-Marc call out a questioning _"Maman?"_ as I ran past him. _ Please, oh, please don't let Raoul find her... _I sprinted through the house and stopped dead in my tracks when I approached the music room, my heart sinking to the floor. Raoul stood in the doorway, his hands in his pockets, his head down. _He knows... _ His posture reminded me of a man in mourning. With tears welling up in my eyes, I looked beyond my husband to the girl at the piano, that damned sheet music that I had hidden in another room was spread all over the floor around the instrument. Eloise plucked deliberately at the keys, Beethoven's melody filling the hallway and beyond.

"Raoul..." I uttered. My voice cracked from the emotion.

He reached out and quietly shut the double doors to the music room. He rested his forehead against the smooth wood for a moment before sighing and turning to me. "I think... I think we need to go upstairs for this discussion, Christine." His eyes were rimmed red and his voice held so much pain and … _betrayal_.

I followed him silently to our room, wondering for how much longer it would be _our_ room. I stood there while he shut the door, tears of remorse flowing down my cheeks. The discussion that followed was one of the most difficult things I have ever endured.

"When?" Raoul managed when he finally turned to face me.

I bit my bottom lip and looked at the floor. I could not bare the hurt on his handsome face. "It was when you were on your last journey with the Navy," I admitted quietly through my stifled sobs.

"After I saved you from him, you went back," he sat heavily on the bed.

"He...he was ill, near death..."

Raoul put a hand up to silence me. "Please, Christine, spare me the details. I don't think I need to hear them."

I nodded.

"How long have you known that Eloise is his?" Throughout our conversation, Raoul never raised his voice, not even once, though he had every right to do so.

"A few years ago. When I realized she does not look like either one of us."

"A few _years_ ago?" he repeated in disbelief. "And you didn't tell me?"

"I..." My mouth opened and closed several times as I tried to find the words. "How? How could I? How could I tell you about the terrible thing I had done? How I betrayed you?" I buried my face in my hands and openly sobbed, unable to hold it back any longer. "Please... please, Raoul... don't take this out on Eloise."

He inhaled sharply, clearly disgusted with the idea. "Of course not."

Those were the only words I wanted to hear. I apologized, I begged for his forgiveness -though I did not expect it and did not receive it for a long time - and fretted about my fate. Raoul decided that it would be best for the family and for Eloise that her true heritage remain a secret, at least for now. Raoul's trust in me, however, was gone and did not return for a very long time. And even then, things were never exactly as they once were.

For the most part, life continued as normal in the de Chagny household. Raoul and I both tried to act as normal as possible but Ellie, proving again that she was more her father's daughter than mine, could tell something was not quite right. She continued to call Raoul "Papa" and, bless him, he never corrected her on the matter. I believe it was how the relationship between Raoul and myself had cooled that made her wonder. She never said a word, but I could tell by her questioning looks, even for a girl not yet nine years of age, that she knew not all was well.

Six months after my confession to my husband the next step in this difficult process needed to be made.

"Christine," Raoul paused and ran a hand over his hair. "She needs to know."

I looked at my husband, confused. Seeing the expression on my face, he clarified, "Ellie needs to know that I am not her true father. She's too smart. She knows something is not right."

I suddenly felt chilled despite the warm fire burning nearby. I wanted to argue with him, but I knew he was right. I did not sleep that night as I agonized over how I was going to tell my daughter that the man she looked up to and called "Papa" was not her papa at all.


End file.
